Where Others Fear to Tread
by Shaynie
Summary: John's burden gets heavier over the years, watching as his boys grow up and struggling to find a way to merge hunting and protecting them together.


Author: Shaynie

Disclaimer: I own nothing -- and supernatural belongs to Kripke and the WB. The song referenced is "Carry on my wayward son" by Kansas.

* * *

There was a time, not too long ago, when getting his hands dirty hadn't meant being covered in gore. When the only thing he had to worry about when tucking in his sons was accidentally getting some grease on the blankets, not blood. When he didn't shake hands with a principal with fear in his eyes.

That time felt more than a lifetime in the past to John Winchester.

He tensed when he saw the doorknob to their apartment turning, inadvertently pulling out a knife noiselessly. He put it back into his sheath when he realized it was just Sam stomping in excitedly, letting in a variety of fall leaves. John drew in a breath when his eldest son didn't immediately follow, but let it out when Dean appeared a moment later.

"Sam." The one word came out as a warning, and stopped the boy in his tracks. Eyes widened imperceptibly, and he looked at his father shiftily.

"Yes?" The tone was wrong. At eleven, the boy shouldn't even have been able to master belligerent to the point of insult, but then Sam had always been a bit precocious.

"You forgot the knock. Again." This interchange was becoming more and more common between him and Sam since Dean had started hunting with him. For some reason, the more often (or serious) Dean's wounds were, the more belligerent Sam was.

"Dad, it's stupid. You know it's us when we get home anyways, so it's not like we need to knock a certain way."

John stared at his son for a moment, until the boy started to shift his weight between his feet.

"Ok. Fine, I'll do that stupid knock thing _if _I can go to the library this weekend."

John hated to make compromises with his youngest son – it always meant there would be more to follow suit later – but he could make the kid practice his Latin or something. Peace of mind for the youngest to actually use the special knock he had designated to Dean when he was still hunting by himself.

John nodded, and Sam jumped a bit excitedly and ran to the room he and Dean shared.

"You know he's just going to keep pushing, don't you? He'll get farther and farther away if you let him." The voice, soft and mature beyond the mere fifteen years, startled him. Dean was getting a lot better at moving if he could sneak up on him.

John turned, surprised to see his own fear mirrored in his son's eyes. "I know."

Dean's face paled a bit, perhaps seeing a place where Sam didn't fit into their little universe, before shuttering.

"So when are we going hunting?"

* * *

The slash shouldn't have been bleeding like it was. John's hands shook as he drove the Impala recklessly down the dirt road, trying to ignore the small gasps of pain Sam was making. 

Head wounds always looked worse than actually were.

John grimaced, and almost missed the turn off to the hospital. They would have to get out of Hudson faster than they had left Keswick or the questions might start to follow him. The fifteenth year was the beginning mark for his boys – Dean had never been hurt this badly before, even when they had mangled the fight with the ghoul so badly that they'd both been fairly seriously injured, neither of them had been knocked unconscious before.

For some reason the fact that Sam was the one bleeding out made it worse.

Sam, the little idiot, had all but ran _towards_ the dobarcu they had been fighting in a tiny little Irish village. The creature hadn't been that dangerous, but Sam had tripped i onto /i the creature's fur, when it had been waiting for attack.

Hospitals hated him already. What was one more for the record books.

Dean shifted behind him, and the boy – man – put more pressure on his brother's head.

"Dad. He's getting really warm."

John ground his teeth a bit. His youngest was going to get an earful about this stunt if – when – he woke up. As much as Sam may have thought he had no idea how he thought, this was glaringly obvious. Get hurt and stop hunting.

John snorted inwardly. Hunting was part of them now, whether he liked it or not. He had to keep going; even if it meant that they didn't have a 'normal' childhood.

_Masquerading as a man with a reason_

_My charade is the event of the season_

_And if I claim to be a wise man, well_

_It surely means that I don't know_

* * *

There were times that John wished his youngest son would catch him watching him. The last fight hadn't helped either of them deal with things. 

And he'd admit that he'd become more obsessive in the last few years, watching Sam, even watching Dean when the other man couldn't catch him. But he knew it was after Sam – and if stalking him from afar whenever he got called into California allowed him to assure himself that the boy wasn't dead yet -- then all the better.

Dean didn't need to know why Mary had died. There would be time enough later, but for now... For now there were other things to do.

John turned away from watching the boy smile happily at blonde, memories of another blonde in a different life worlds away catching at him for a moment before he revved the engine of his truck.

For now his oldest son had a burden on his shoulders he'd never meant to give him. Until then he would have to keep on eye on his youngest, and hope that Dean was as strong as he thought he was.

No way to test it until everything fell apart.

John drove his truck away slowly. He had other things to worry about if Sam was actually serious about that girl... especially if all the research Caleb had done with him was right.

As John sped off, familiar traffic lines blurring as he sped through the campus, he pulled out his cell phone and left a message for Dean.

He needed to do this alone if any of them had a chance to live through the end. Putting together the research had taken twenty-three years. He wasn't sure if getting the demon's attention would take that long at all.

_Carry on my wayward son_

_There'll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_Don't you cry no more... _

* * *

John looked at the pay phone, trying to bring himself to take the badly abused thing off the cradle. 

He was more tired than he could possibly imagine. He was getting close to the end. He had done more than just piss off the demon -- it was out for more than just blood now.

It was out for Sam. Again.

John hit the numbers numbly. Maybe it would all be over soon.


End file.
